


Kafka on the Court

by potatototer



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, as atsumu awoke one morning he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect, just kidding it's not that kind of kafka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatototer/pseuds/potatototer
Summary: It wasn’t really a thing, this nothing between Atsumu and Oikawa, except it kept happening, and it was verynicefor something that wasn’t really a thing.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 22
Kudos: 148





	Kafka on the Court

They met again at Worlds. 

Hiroshima was only a half a day’s trip from Tokyo, but Atsumu had booked his hotel room for the Thursday before the matches started. Thursday was, after all, the day the Argentinian team was scheduled to arrive. 

“You’re the only one heading out so early,” Bokuto had accused him, jabbing a pair of chopsticks into his chest. “Why? What aren’t you inviting us to?”

“My sex life,” Atsumu had answered dryly.

“And why not?” Bokuto said, crossing his arms. 

“Because you’re ugly and not hot at all,” Atsumu replied. He returned Bokuto's jab with his own chopsticks and then poked them at a point a bit lower. “Go on. Is there a six-pack or not?” So Bokuto had pouted and dropped the line of questioning.

Of course, Meian had hurried anxiously up to him as they left practice. “You’re not really going early just to hook up with someone?” Which was a silly question and Meian seemed to realize it, so he quickly added, “Who?”

Atsumu had merely grinned. “If it was any of your business, you’d know, wouldn’t you? I’ll see you Saturday.”

It wasn’t really a thing, this nothing between Atsumu and Oikawa, except it kept happening, and it was very _nice_ for something that wasn’t really a thing. 

“This isn’t going to be a thing,” Oikawa warned him, on Thursday night, when they saw each other next. Atsumu had accosted him, very subtly, of course, and very elegantly, in the lobby of the Hyatt where the Argentinian team had been booked to stay for the two weeks. And Atsumu knew that going in because – well, he just knew it.

“Huh? What thing?” Atsumu asked innocently, and then shifted to one side of the stiff lobby couch. 

Oikawa eyed the space with the sort of calculating eye he usually turned on a ball arcing above the opposite side of the court. Then with his usual deftness tossed his suitcase over and slid in next to Atsumu. 

Win! Atsumu thought, gleefully. He was never wrong about Oikawa. He stroked his foot up one of Oikawa’s very tantalizing calves. 

“You’re an idiot,” Oikawa told him, very snobbishly, but didn’t move his leg. “And we’re going to crush you on Saturday.”

“Dirty talk in the lobby?” Atsumu smirked, which angered Oikawa sufficiently for him to drag Atsumu up to his room and demand to be taken out of his clothes. As he had said, Atsumu was never wrong about Oikawa. 

* * *

So that was Worlds. In a more sensible universe, it would have been the last time they saw each other for a good long time, long enough for both of them to regain their sanity and look for romantic partners with less _scratching_ , but as it happened they lived in a world where Ushiwaka managed not only to land a girl but to convince her to hitch her sorry ass to his.

It was a winter wedding, not eight weeks after Atsumu had last been hate-fucked by the Argentinian national team’s starting setter, and as it turned out Ushiwaka had shit for brains. There was truly nothing but volleyball in all six-and-a-half feet of him, Atsumu decided, because apparently Ushiwaka thought it was a good idea to make seating arrangements based on volleyball positions. It made some sort of sense, maybe, if you wanted your guests to murder each other before the vows were exchanged.

But it worked out alright for Atsumu. “Well, well. Look who just can’t get enough of me,” he said, and leaned back in his tasselled chair to look Oikawa Tooru up and down. He did look very good in his suit.

“I’m going to kill you tonight,” Oikawa said sweetly, and dropped in the seat right next to him. It was very promising that Oikawa thought there would be a tonight. “Right after I kill that toad Ushiwaka. Look who he’s put right across from us.”

It was, after all, the setters table. “Oikawa,” greeted Kageyama Tobio shyly, dipping his head. 

“Dipshit,” Oikawa muttered under his breath, before giving his protegé a charming smile. “Hello.”

The ceremony was perfectly classical and Ushiwaka’s wife was very beautiful and very solemn. Halfway through, Atsumu realized he had no idea why Oikawa was even here. 

“Hey, Tooru,” he said. “How do you even know Ushiwaka?”

Oikawa hated when Atsumu used his given name. “What on earth do you mean, Tsum-Tsum?”

Fair enough, Atsumu thought. The nickname made him want to either curl up somewhere in shame or – or grab Oikawa’s hand. It was cute when he said it! “I mean you never went to Nationals when you were still playing in Japan, right? So unless you have a pattern of giving cross-continental head –”

Oikawa slapped his hand over Atsumu’s mouth. It was, to be honest, hotter than it had probably been intended to be. Atsumu shifted his chair just a bit closer. “My _reputation_ ,” Oikawa whined. “Not in front of the children!”

The children. Tobio was doing an admirable job pretending there was absolutely nothing happening except the slow crumbling of his cake in front of him. Sugawara Koushi, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten the wedding was happening in the complete other direction. 

“Ushiwaka was my arch-nemesis in high school,” Oikawa said, a little quieter. He repeated: “ _Arch-nemesis!_ You didn’t know I was from Miyagi?”

Atsumu frowned. “It’s not like we, you know, talked. Much.”

They were silent after that, which made Atsumu want to grab Oikawa’s hand. It was a stupid impulse. So naturally, Atsumu gave in.

Oikawa side-eyed him. Finally, after a long moment during which Atsumu completely missed Ushiwaka and his wife’s first kiss as a married couple, Oikawa unfurled his long, perfect setter’s hands and laced their fingers together. 

“Whatever,” Oikawa huffed softly. Atsumu was, of course, right again.

* * *

The bed in Oikawa’s room was hard. That night Atsumu nearly had the wind knocked out of him as Oikawa shoved him roughly down, and then draped himself on top, running hands up Atsumu’s sides along his throat and into his hair. The word to describe Oikawa in bed was, well, overactive. He never stopped moving – kicking, biting, pinching – as if there was an itch he couldn’t reach and the only way to do so was pure, physical, painful sex. 

But he was an oddly gentle kisser. Since the first time Atsumu had pressed Oikawa against the back of an Olympic Village complex, to the first time they had fallen inexorably into bed together, to this very moment, Oikawa kissed just right. Not too much tongue; not too little. Not too much teeth; not too little. Oikawa kissed like he’d been told he was sloppy once by a girl and now had a point to prove.

Whenever Atsumu thought about that he wanted to stop his own hands from where they were moving and just tug the body on top of him closer. To hold, for a little bit, and to kiss, just a little bit messier.

It was another stupid impulse, which he gave into, until Oikawa seemed to get disgusted and flipped him over so he was on his hands and knees.

“You’ve got –?” Atsumu started to ask, but Oikawa was already smirking, pulling off the lid to the bottle of lube.

And the sex was altogether too earnest for what they were doing, which was just a string of one-night stands, loosely connected by international volleyball matches. Oikawa was three fingers deep when Atsumu started saying stupid shit, as per usual, all of which he truly meant in the moment and would promptly forget about in the morning.

“It’s so good,” he hissed, face buried in the pillow. His ass was on fire and leaking lube. “ _You’re_ so good. Come on, more, love, just a little more to the right, and harder, yes, Tooru _baby_ –”

And Oikawa would stay stupid shit in return, which Atsumu, as a rule, did not believe and did not wrack his brains afterwards trying to remember and to write down and jack off to later.

So it was all par course. Rinse, and repeat.

They would’ve smoked in the afterglow if either had been slightly less keen on their respiratory health. It just seemed right. There was a thick, hazy feel to the room after they fucked, with the lights off and the sheets pulled loosely up to their waists. Atsumu remembered every single one of the conversations they had coming down slowly from the sex high. 

That night Ushiwaka must’ve been on Oikawa’s mind because in his post-orgasmic haze he started off with an apparent non-sequitur. “You know what, ‘Tsum?” he mumbled. “I was gonna quit.”

It took Atsumu a long moment to understand. Then, with a groan, he rolled over onto his back so they were lying side by side, staring up at the ceiling. “Me, too,” he replied, surprising himself.

He felt Oikawa stir slightly. “What?”

“Mhm. Was gonna quit after high school. Why’d you change your mind?”

There was a pause. “You first,” said Oikawa.

Atsumu thought for a moment about Osamu, his onigiri shop, and the overwhelming resentment he had felt towards his twin brother for quitting, for not believing in volleyball the same way he did. “Spite,” he answered.

There was a huff of laughter from his side. “Me, too.”

Probably Atsumu should have had a lot of questions to ask, and a lot of details to add, but none of that seemed particularly important at the moment. His mind was drifting. He wondered if Oikawa had ever dated anyone back in Miyagi, where apparently he was from. He wondered if Oikawa was _currently_ dating anyone. Suddenly Oikawa turned over and curled up against Atsumu’s side, sighing a little.

“You’re in my armpit,” Atsumu complained. He wiggled around a bit. “Come up a little.”

“You’re disgusting,” Oikawa said, his voice muffled. “You smell horrible.”

“Who gives a shit?” Atsumu said, but he sniffed himself discreetly. It jolted him awake. “Okay, well, go on. What were you going to say?”

“I said it. You stink.”

“No, about volleyball, asshole.”

“Volleyball?” Atsumu felt Oikawa smirk. His lips were pressed against the tender undersides of Atsumu’s upper arm, where, absentmindedly, they altered into a soft kiss. Atsumu caught his breath. “It’s always about volleyball. You’re obsessed.”

“You know _you_ talk about it during sex, right?” Atsumu pitched his voice to a throaty moan, mocking. “Oh, Tsum-Tsum, that’s it, serve that perfect ace into my _ass –_ ”

Two fingers jabbed right into Atsumu’s side, making him yelp. “But you talk about it in your _sleep,_ Tsum,” said Oikawa. “And you start doing sets with the pillows. You have terrible form.”

That was a total banger of a lie. Atsumu always made sure Oikawa fell asleep first. “You wouldn’t know a good set if it smacked you in the face,” he retorted. “And if you’re not going to tell me whatever it was you were going on about, stop making things up and go to sleep.”

“I wish I were making it up,” Oikawa said darkly. “And I was saying I was going to quit volleyball after high school, but now saying it feels less cool and dramatic since it seems like everyone and their brother was going to quit volleyball after high school. I don’t even know if I want to tell the story anymore.”

“Just go on,” Atsumu groaned. 

Oikawa got halfway through before he started snoring. Atsumu, on the other hand, was wide awake. He tried connecting the dots he was given: Oikawa, a high-school nobody with a busted knee, fresh out of his final Interhigh prelims with nothing to show for it but a boatload of self-hate, and Oikawa, starting setter for Argentina with a predilection for giving hickeys to starting setters from Japan. The points just didn’t match up. 

He stilled his hands from where they were carding, mindlessly, through Oikawa’s hair. There was a sudden drop in his gut. 

Goddamn it, Atsumu thought. Absolutely none of this was in the plans.

He was limping – limping! – back to his own room in the inn when he realized, bleary-eyed, that his door was blocked by three bodies. 

“What,” he said, wearily. 

“You didn’t!” Bokuto said. “Not Oikawa!” Hinata said. “Please let me go back to sleep,” Sakusa said.

Atsumu rubbed his temple really, really hard. “I don’t know what you want,” he moaned. “I’m very tired and I would like to go to bed in my own room without having to deal with my meddlesome teammates.”

“But you _didn’t_ ,” said Bokuto. “Not to _Oikawa,”_ said Hinata. “ _Please_ –” said Sakusa.

Atsumu cut him off. “Yes, I did,” he pronounced. “Yes, to Oikawa. And yes, Sakusa, leave, and take these fools with you.” Atsumu was going to throw himself out the window. “I hate you all and I’m going to quit volleyball for real because I hate everybody who plays this goddamned sport.”

“I can’t believe you walked out on him,” said Bokuto, and Atsumu realized what he was really on about.

“You walked out on Oikawa Tooru,” repeated Hinata, with some awe. “It’s four in the morning. And you aren’t spending the night with him. Because you’re toying with him. The Grand King.”

Atsumu heard the capital letters and it made him cringe. “Goodnight,” he said to all that, with finality, and managed to get himself into his room without the rest of them following.

It was true but completely false, he thought as he lay in bed that night. In his sleep, Oikawa’s fingers had been clutched around the fabric of Atsumu’s shirt. It hadn’t been fun to peel them off, nor to pick up his boxers from off the ground and slip out of the room as noiselessly as he could. But it was all a part of the bizarre routine which threw Oikawa and Atsumu together and pulled them apart just as quickly. It wasn’t like Atsumu didn’t want to stay. He did. He was exhausted after fucking and he liked how Oikawa smelled and how he felt and how he snored and he also liked the idea of waking up together tangled in the sheets. But whatever they had wasn’t really a thing, and Atsumu was never wrong where it concerned Oikawa, so he had closed the door very gently behind him when he left.

* * *

“What are you doing here?”

Atsumu nearly tripped over his bag. “Waiting for the train?” he answered, uncertainly. “Have I done something wrong? Why are _you_ here?”

Oikawa dropped his duffel next to Atsumu’s. He was tall and beautiful and apparently also going to Tokyo. “Sendai,” Oikawa corrected, as if reading his mind. “I’m going to stay for a bit. Ushiwaka’s wedding was a perfect excuse to visit home.”

There was something off about him. Atsumu kept darting side-glances at the other setter. It wasn’t the sweatpants and t-shirt; Atsumu had seen him in those, late at night poking around the training gyms doing what he called recon which was definitely not stalking. It wasn’t even the Sangaria white grape drink Oikawa had in his hands, as nasty as it was to be drinking that at nine in the morning. “Glasses,” Atsumu blurted. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“I know how to read, unlike you,” said Oikawa, but there was a note of defensiveness in his voice. 

“No, no,” said Atsumu immediately. “It’s hot.” And was promptly mortified at his own honesty.

Oikawa was frowning slightly. “Weirdo,” he muttered under his breath. 

“I just meant,” Atsumu began, and then gave up. “Um, sleep well?”

“Any better and I would’ve missed the train,” Oikawa answered cryptically, and thank God the train was indeed approaching, because Atsumu could not for the life of him figure out what was going on in Oikawa’s tone. 

It was early Sunday morning and the non-reserved sections of the train were empty. No one seemed keen on going into Tokyo at this hour except the few tourists with their massive backpacks, hoping to catch a glimpse of Fuji in the winter. They had their pick of seats, but it would’ve been odd if Atsumu decided to sit in a different row, which he wanted to, if only so he could stare at the back of Oikawa’s head and daydream in peace and quiet. 

Oikawa tossed his bag up on the rack and then picked up Atsumu’s without a second thought, throwing it next to his own with an ease that shouldn’t have made Atsumu’s mouth water. Because Atsumu had nice shoulders, too. Better, if he did say so himself. Then Oikawa slid in the window seat and Atsumu, relenting, took the aisle. Without looking, Oikawa set his can of grape juice delicately on the seat in the middle. 

Okay, thought Atsumu. Chastity belt. Fine. “Only that’s gonna spill, you know.”

Oikawa had his book out already and was ignoring Atsumu. Stretching his leg out, Atsumu bumped Oikawa’s foot with his own. “I slept terribly, if you were wondering.”

“Then take a nap,” Oikawa suggested. He shoved Atsumu’s foot away with force. 

“No shoulder to sleep on,” Atsumu whined. “Usually Bokuto lets me. Also, my ass hurts.”

“Bokuto helps you with that, too?”

“I’m sure he _would_.”

That got a soft snort out of Oikawa. “You should’ve just told me you couldn’t take it,” he said, sounding awfully smug. “I’ll be gentler next time.”

“Huh!” said Atsumu. Because no one was around he tugged down his jacket zipper so Oikawa could see the bruises he’d left there. There was a trail of bite marks going all the way down the hollow of his throat, disappearing into the v-neck of his shirt. It was hard to forget about that particular column of hickeys because Oikawa had given them to him while fucking him like a racehorse as Atsumu thrashed, moaning incoherently, underneath. He’d come, for the third time that night, like that. “Gentler! You?”

“Put that away,” Oikawa commanded, but his cheeks were flushed. “Tsum-Tsum, you whore.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu agreed. Just like that, he was horny again. “Hey, the bathroom’s open.”

“Put it _away_ ,” said Oikawa.

There was a stop at Shin-Osaka an hour later and suddenly the train was bustling. A snot-nosed teenager stood over Atsumu, eyeing the empty middle seat in row thirteen pointedly. Atsumu took a look around and sighed.

“Oh my God, fine,” Atsumu grumbled under his breath, and picking up Oikawa’s stupid grape juice, slid over so the teenager could take his seat.

“Thanks, old man,” said the teenager, who immediately whipped out his Nintendo Switch.

“Take your fucking juice,” said Atsumu to Oikawa.

“I don’t want it,” said Oikawa.

“Oh my God,” Atsumu said again. He turned around. “Hey kid, you want a drink?”

The kid had earphones in. “Huh?” Then he saw the can Atsumu was proffering. “I don’t know you, weirdo. Leave me alone.”

“I hope this train crashes,” Atsumu said to no one in particular. 

Oikawa was smiling. “It’s beautiful outside, Tsum-Tsum. Look. I didn’t expect I’d miss Japan this much.”

It was just small villages and rice paddies and the occasional industrial wasteland outside, all linked together by miles and miles of telephone lines. “Sure,” Atsumu said, uncertainly. But Oikawa had closed his book and was turned almost squarely to the window, his nose pressed against the glass like a little kid. Atsumu stared at the back of his head. He wanted very much to touch, or to rest his chin on Oikawa’s shoulder and look out the window together.

Obviously, he did none of the above, just watched the scenery change through the lens of Oikawa’s glasses until he noticed Oikawa’s eyes fluttering shut. Within moments his breathing evened out and his head dropped down. Atsumu watched his glasses slide down his nose and a spot of drool form at the corner of his mouth before he realized it was _affection_ which was surging through him, and, promptly nauseous, chugged the entire can of grape juice himself. 

He wanted to nap, too, what with the solid three hours of sleep he’d gotten last night, but he was too scared to look away. He’d never had the luxury of observing Oikawa like this: vulnerable and touchable in a way he never was during sex, or on the court. Without really meaning to, he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Oikawa’s ear where it had fallen in his gaping mouth.

Oikawa caught his hand in a sudden, fluid motion. He cracked an eye open, glaring at Atsumu accusingly. “You’re such a creep.”

“Excuse me!”

“I know you’re always watching me sleep,” Oikawa continued, his grip still vise-like on Atsumu’s wrist. “At night. And sneaking out when it’s convenient for you.”

“ _Excuse_ me!” Atsumu was indignant. “You’re the one who _makes_ me crawl home at four in the morning. All I want to do after sex is sleep, too. But no! You can’t handle a single night of intimacy. Not with me. Not even on your massive king-sized bed.” And then, with feeling, “ _Twat_.”

Oikawa let go of his wrist. “That’s not true,” he said, softly. Then, without further explanation, he plugged in his earphones and turned resolutely back to the window.

Atsumu was baffled. The kid next to him nudged his side. “He seems angry,” the kid noted. 

“What?” Atsumu said, irritably. “Yeah. He is.”

“When my girlfriend’s angry I don’t just let her sulk,” said the kid. 

“Oh yeah?” Atsumu said, raising an eyebrow. He was suddenly amused. Oikawa was totally the girlfriend. “What do you do instead?”

The kid looked at him oddly. “I don’t know, kiss her and stuff? Why are you so interested? Fucking sicko.” And then he turned back to his Switch. 

All in all, it was a miserable train ride. Atsumu read the instructions on the back of the seat in front of him over and over again until he had soundly memorized where every bathroom and escape route was on all twenty-six cars of the train. Then he read the instructions included in the pamphlet in the seat pocket over and over again until he had also memorized how to connect to the on-train WiFi, how to get help if his device wasn’t connecting, and how to order an on-train snack if he ever felt the urge. 

He itched to get his hands on something. Not a snack. There was a volleyball in his duffel, but he couldn’t get it out now. 

They were nearing Tokyo Station when abruptly, Oikawa pulled an earbud out. He said, “It’s the off-season, isn’t it? No one’s training now. Why are you going to Tokyo?”

Atsumu gaped at him. “It’s...where I live?”

Oikawa took the other earbud out. “Is someone waiting for you there?”

It was a strangely loaded question. The train barrelled into a tunnel. There was nothing to look at but the dark brown of Oikawa’s eyes, awake and blinking slowly at him under the train’s fluorescent lights. “No,” said Atsumu.

“Okay. Come to Sendai,” said Oikawa, and then went back to pretending to be asleep.

* * *

They were staying in Oikawa’s parents’ apartment, which was hilarious and absurd and ten different kinds of wrong. As it turned out Oikawa’s parents had no idea who Miya Atsumu was, or to be honest, what volleyball was, but were awfully pleased to see their son dating again. 

“It’s been so long since he’s brought someone home,” Oikawa’s mom whispered to Atsumu conspiratorially. “The last girl he dated broke up with him three days later.”

“Is that so?” Atsumu asked politely, fighting the urge to laugh. 

“Tooru told her he would like her better if she had a volleyball for a head,” Oikawa’s mom confided. 

“That would do it,” Atsumu said, nodding. “Fortunately, there’s not much else in mine.”

It was a stupid joke but Oikawa’s mom laughed anyway, which made Atsumu feel like he’d just landed three service aces in a row. The doorbell rang. “Oh, that’ll be Takeru,” she said, still smiling. “Tooru’s nephew, you know. If we’re not careful, he’s going to grow up with a leather head, too.”

“Nephew?” Atsumu echoed. 

“Yeah, nephew,” said the boy at the door, taking his shoes off and ducking to avoid his grandmother’s kisses. “Unfortunately, I’ve got garbage for an uncle. I’m Oikawa Takeru. Nice to meet you.”

“Miya Atsumu,” said Atsumu, not sure if he was supposed to offer his hand to this twelve-year-old.

“I know,” Takeru said, rolling his eyes. He stomped into the kitchen.

Oikawa swept through then, sweeping his nephew up in a bear hug and pinching his cheeks like he was the grandmother. “My mini-me!” he cheered. “How’s it going, kid? Kita-Dai still the cesspit it was ten years ago?”

“Yup,” said Takeru monotonously.

“You have a brother?” Atsumu asked Oikawa.

“Sister,” corrected Oikawa. “Inoue. She’s gay. They took Oikawa as their name.”

“Huh,” said Atsumu, thoughtfully.

Inoue bustled in in a flurry of coats and bags, holding onto her wife as they took their shoes off and shoved presents into her mother’s hands. Atsumu stared. They were both gorgeous. “Tooru!” Inoue yelled. “Come give me a hug. And who’s this? You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone over?”

“No, Atsumu, he’s –”

“A bit short, isn’t he?” Inoue looked him up and down sharply. “Hm. Well, if that’s what you’re into. Go on, Tooru. Are you going to play volleyball with Takeru or no? He wouldn’t shut up about seeing you again the whole car ride here.”

“Not true,” Takeru muttered, but they took two balls out to the courtyard anyway. It was a bit difficult trying to play with three people but Atsumu bore his dual-role of libero and ball boy with dignity. Takeru played wing spiker at school, and that Oikawa had trained him growing up was obvious.

They tossed until the sun began to set. Then Takeru took one of the volleyballs and began practicing his serves against the side of the apartment complex, which Atsumu watched nervously until Oikawa went to join him on the steps of the fire escape, knocking their knees together, and Atsumu promptly forgot about all his qualms regarding property damage.

“What do you think?” Oikawa asked, twirling the second volleyball with one hand.

“He’s a good hitter. Should probably work on his receives. I’d be careful about his wrists,” Atsumu answered readily. They were sitting really very close together. Oikawa’s hip was pressed into his, and he tried hard not to think about how nice it would be if he could just slip an arm around that waist.

“Not about Takeru,” Oikawa laughed. “This. All of this. You wanna stay for the week?”

Atsumu’s mouth ran dry. “I, uh,” he said.

“It’s okay. I’m just offering. I’m flying back to Argentina on the twentieth. You can do whatever you want.”

Atsumu changed tracks. “Your mom thinks we’re dating.”

Oikawa looked up at the sky and began bouncing the ball on his fingertips, over and over. He didn’t say anything.

“Why bother?” Atsumu said, watching him handle the ball with professional grace. “You’re never going to get better at setting than me.”

“I’m practicing for something else,” Oikawa said, and as if to prove his point spiked the ball point-blank into Atsumu’s face.

Atsumu let it knock him flat onto the stairs. “God, I fucking hate you,” he said. “Life is absolutely meaningless.”

“Yes, yes. It’s all a simulation, and no one loves you,” Oikawa cooed. “Come on, they’re calling. It’s time for dinner. Your nose is bleeding.”

Takeru was shouting something in response to his mother, whose head was poking out the window. They watched him kick the volleyball in the air, catch it under his arm, and sprint back inside. 

“Do you think we can handle long distance?” Atsumu asked, when neither of them moved.

Oikawa folded his hands on top of the volleyball and rested his chin on top of them. He looked at Atsumu for a while. “Long distance what?” he said mildly.

“Nevermind,” Atsumu sighed. He got up, wiped his nose, dusted himself off, and then extended a hand to Oikawa. 

Oikawa only looked at it. Then after a long, considering moment he took it, laced his fingers through, and said, “Well, I’m not worried. I can’t imagine anyone in their right mind wanting to deal with an idiot like you.”

Slowly, it dawned on him what Oikawa meant. Atsumu felt his face break out in a wide smile. “I’ll take what I can get.”

“And you’ll have it for the week,” Oikawa said, but it was phrased like a question. Atsumu heard the unspoken, _Right?_ that came right after.

“Right,” said Atsumu, still grinning. Because as it turned out, Oikawa was always right about Atsumu.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading and supporting oiatsu supremacy! There's art for this fic [here](https://twitter.com/potato_toter/status/1296885044921937921). Kudos go to help fund Bokuto's attempts to get a six-pack <3


End file.
